


oh, what a sin

by elinadsy



Category: Skulduggery Pleasant - Derek Landy
Genre: Dirty Talk, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Masturbation, Post SP Midnight, Rough Sex, Spoilers, Valduggery - Freeform, mild abusive overtones from Abyssinia's POV, of age valkyrie, porn with a little plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-31
Updated: 2018-05-31
Packaged: 2019-05-16 13:47:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14812511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elinadsy/pseuds/elinadsy
Summary: idealism sits prison, chivalry fell on its sword, or;Valkyrie has some unusual dreams. And she doesn't quite know how to handle them.WARNING: SPOILERS FOR SP:MIDNIGHT.





	oh, what a sin

**Author's Note:**

> I literally pounded out this indulgent smut in six hours. Join me in the sin pit, I guess.
> 
> Warning, once more: spoilers for Midnight and explicit sex (lots of it).

Valkyrie dreams of things soft, things gentle, and even in her far-gone sleep state, she’s so grateful for it, for this dream of normal things, the slow ocean on the beach and the sand between her toes. She sits there for a minute, an hour, a day and a month and a year just _relishing_ in it.

 After a while, she decides to go for a walk in the water, like she used to in the summertime and then suddenly, as she wades up to her calves, warm water on her bare skin, she’s stepping not onto the comforting give of wet sand but through a doorway, into a dark lit room, the single source of light a blazing candle on a little bedside table.

 Rain lashes the rough glazed windows and she stands there for a moment, watching it, and then she turns to look at him as he shrugs off his coat, unbuttons his shirt. She counts his ribs, one two three, and loves how the candle light paints his clavicle as he hangs the shirt up, steps out of his pants.

 “I’ve been wanting you to fuck me all day,” Valkyrie says, but it’s not her voice, it’s Abyssinia’s, and she watches Skulduggery cross the room. He passes the window, and she sees her own reflection, dark skin and fuzzy silver hair peeking out from beneath her _doek_.

 “Get on the bed, then,” he says, that rich voice dark, and she lets her nightgown drop to the floor. Oh, but Abyssinia wishes she could see where he was looking, as she lays on that bed, naked and dripping from her altar.

 Skulduggery’s finger-bones grip her knees and she gasps in delight at that pain, how he pushes her thighs apart like he’s cleaving rock and water. Shadow swells up around him like the skin he’ll have one day again, if she can help it, and he opens his jaw and that darkness comes out, dragging along the seam of her, along her lips. A moan in her throat and her hand on his skull and she can feel him feeling her.

 She hasn’t got quite the grasp of his strange mind yet, but she can sense him in lights and sensation, and feels him shiver; he pushes her out, violently, taking the breath from her lungs with the force of it.

 “Enough,” he says, and she lets him think he’s in charge as that shadow-tongue slips into her aching cunt.

 “ _Besime’ābi_ !” she cries, and he slips shadow fingers in there now as he comes back to her _kisimi_ , Gods but her native tongues overtakes her when he finger fucks her like this.

 He knows just how she likes it, rough, inconsiderate, almost like it hurts, and just when she’s about to come, he pulls out of her.

 She whines, low and needy, and he works his way up her, leaving bites that hurt and sting, break her skin, healing even as he moves on. Abyssinia feels him working that cool fever, a Necromancer’s detached heat. He bites her neck and she thrusts desperately against him, rutting, and shadows pin her down.

 Skulduggery pulls back and her blood is on his teeth, and she decides it’s her turn to play this game.

 Strong with the energy from their latest kills, she breaks his shadow hold and flips him over, and now it’s _him_ beneath _her_. He doesn’t struggle, of course. He knows she’s the master of this hunt, and she trails her fingers down his sternum, watching him buck  upwards, her magic pulsing along him.

 “Say you need me,” she tells him.

 “I need you,” he rasps, and she shivers, feeling his shadow ranger against her.

 “Say I’m the only one who will ever touch you like this,” she commands him.

 He groans, fingers sinking so hard into the swell of her backside she knows he’s bruised her, and she _relishes_ in it. He tries to coax her, grinding against her, a shadowed finger slippery with her own wetness sliding into her asshole.

 She shivers. “Naughty,” she says, and takes his hands, pinning them against the rough stone wall.

 “Say it, _mtumwa_ ,” she tells him.

 “You’re the only one who will ever touch me,” he rumbles.

 “Good man,” she says, and sinks onto him. It’s been a while since they first did this, but now she knows how to touch his magic just right, energy spilling from within her. She feels her biceps clench as he tries to free himself, tries to force her to thrust faster, but she takes her time, nice and slow. She’s been wanting to do this all day, watching him stride around and issuing orders, like he’s in charge. It’s adorable. And unacceptable.

 “ _Buíochas le Dia_ ,” Skulduggery moans, and he’s lost once more to those shadows, swarming and coating him and he breaks hold, turns and presses against the wall as he fucks her. Cold, everywhere cold, his shadows in her cunt and they’re both moaning, screaming, and her hands are crumbling the stone like sand with how good and full and _tight_ she feels, and-

 Valkyrie wakes up.

 Sweat drips down her neck, down the valley of her chest and she lays there, panting, painfully conscious of how wet and warm the seam of her is.

 Jesus _Christ_ , what was _that?_

What on God’s green fucking earth was _that?_

-

 

She drags herself out of bed at six because no matter how she tries, she just can’t go back to sleep. Everytime she closes her eyes for longer than a second, all she can see is Skulduggery, bare to the bone, groaning beneath her.

 All she can feel is his cock in her.

 As she tries to lose herself in a particularly brutal workout, she realises mid deadlift that it must have been one of Abyssinia’s memories.

 The thought is not comforting; she had only meant to disable the woman temporarily, force her out of her own mind. She hadn’t meant to, didn’t _want_ to, see anything like this; how many other memories has she absorbed into her like this? How many other horrific, private things are waiting to ensnare her?

 The workout helps some, and she cools down by taking a walk along Grimwood’s little forest, the spring air light on her face. But she still can’t stop replaying that dream, that unearned memory, stuck on loop and jammed in the record player of her brain. Xena whines, and Valkyrie startles, realises she’s been standing there for a few minutes, staring out at the little river.

 “Sorry girl,” she says, gives her a pat, and they walk back to the house. She feels a little better. The fresh air did her good.

 But then she goes to take a shower, and as she washes her hair and washes herself, her fingers slick between her legs, suddenly all she can hear, like his teeth are pressed against her ear, is Skulduggery moaning, loud and low and rough.

  _No_ . She is _not_ masturbating to Skulduggery, let alone to Abyssinia’s _memory of him fucking her._

  _What’s the harm, though?_ A traitorous little part of her says. God, it’s been so long since she touched herself, like denying herself this one small pleasure will make the guilt of the people who died at her hands a little lighter, and she shifts slightly and now she _is_ fucking herself, middle finger in her cunt and her thumb on her clit and it isn’t _enough_.

 She closes her eyes and there he is, Skulduggery, his finger in her ass and his shadow-dick rubbing against her pussy, and she’s rocking into her hand and moaning and groaning and her thighs are shaking and she pretends the cool tiles against her back is that shadow-skin rushing over Skulduggery’s ribs, and-

 Valkyrie comes rough and hoarse, like a boat breaking the surface of the water, like an earthquake splitting rock, and as her orgasm dies away, she still isn’t sated.

 One is enough, she tells herself. Just once is fine. You’re only human. But no more.

 But of course, this is coming from Valkyrie Cain, the womb from which Darquesse spawned, the woman who was too addicted to magic to step back in order to save thousands.

 How could once ever be enough?

 

-

 

She lasts a whole week without touching herself again. A whole, aching, itchy week, feeling like every inch of her is throbbing with the need of it. Valkyrie has the same dream, every night like sensual clockwork, and then she wakes up Sunday morning and her hand is down her pants and, well.

 She closes her eyes, and pretends the entire time that it’s not Abyssinia, but it’s her.

 Valkyrie feels disgusting afterwards, she’s sick with herself, with her weakness, with her _hunger_.

 The next day, she orders takeout for dinner and Skulduggery comes over to sit with her while she eats. It’s an effort she’s been trying to make, both for him, and for her; to interact, to get back in the habit of being a normal person.

 And mostly, it’s been good. It _has_ helped her. But really, as she watches him drape his coat over the back of the armchair, she wishes she had cancelled tonight.

 “Here’s your gnocchi,” he says, passing her the little plastic container. It’s from her favourite Italian restaurant too, but her appetite has been replaced with an entirely different type of hunger. Something far less benign.

 Skulduggery sits next to her, looks at her expectantly. She takes the lid off and spears one of the little gnocchi dumplings with her fork, pretends like she’s a normal person eating a normal dinner with her normal best friend and that she didn’t _feel_ him against her, feel him biting her neck, feel his finger in her ass.

 It’s Skulduggery’s turn to pick a movie, thank God, and she pretends her silence is just her eagerness to eat, that the gnocchi is occupying her thoughts entirely. He swipes through their shared Netflix listing they set up  just for these nights, and selects Monty Python’s _The Holy Grail_. He’s been harassing her to watch it for the entire year she’s been back.

 A comedy. Good. This will take the edge off.

 “Now,” he says, in that painfully sensual voice. “I don’t mean to alarm you, but this is, arguably, one of the greatest contributions to modern culture. If you don’t enjoy it, I’m expecting you to _pretend_ to.”

 Banter. Right. She can do this.

 “Sure,” she mumbles around her gnocchi. _Great job_ , she thinks angrily to herself, but Skulduggery just hits the spacebar on the laptop she has hooked up to the television, and it starts.

 At first, she finds it pretty easy to just focus on her gnocchi and the screen. And then she finishes her gnocchi, and she doesn’t have anything to do with her hands. She tries putting them in her lap, but the slightest graze of her fingers against her inner thighs and she’s sweating and wet and she immediately moves them so she’s leaning on the armrest of the couch, crosses her legs.

 Natural? No. Safe? Yes.

 Despite her efforts, she can’t focus on the rest of the movie. She keeps peeking at him out of the corner of her eye. She knows he’s paying attention to the movie, knows by how his shoulders are angled and how he shakes a little when he chuckles.

 And there’s that ache again. Shit. _Fuck_. There it is, that desire for him to be between her legs, fingers gripping her knees and-

 The movie finishes. Skulduggery turns to her immediately.

 “I can’t believe you didn’t enjoy it,” he says. “I thought you’d love it.”

 She stares at him. She can’t reconcile the words he’s saying as he potters around, cleaning up little things she couldn’t be bothered with, complaining about her not even _trying_ to to enjoy the movie, can’t reconcile them with the same person who so animalistically fucked her against the wall-

 Abyssinia. Fucked _Abyssinia_ against the wall.

 After he leaves, she makes a few online purchases. And then she deletes her browser history, and then considers burning her laptop, as if physical proof of what she ordered isn’t going to be arriving in only a few days, and then she goes and takes a long, cold shower.

 Just pent up sexual frustration, she tells herself as she shivers under the icy shower. That’s all. She happened to accidentally see an intimate moment, and it took her by surprise. That’s it.

 

-

 

It absolutely is _not_ it, because as she’s fucking herself up against the thick, ridged dildo she has suction cupped to the wall, she’s screaming the house down and wishing Skulduggery was biting her neck and slipping two fingers in her asshole.

 Two orgasms later and even though she wants more, _needs more_ , her thighs have had enough and she slumps to the carpet, knees red and body shaking and thinks, _this is a terrible, bad, awful thing I am doing and I can not stop_.

 

-

 

Three days later, she has a different dream. At first she is just running through Haggard, and the people have blank faces. This is okay; it’s not the worst dream she’s had. There’s an odd sort of peace to it. And then she rounds a corner and she’s now stepping into a closet. Skulduggery lifts her up and she wraps her legs around his waist, the bones of his hips pressing into her inner thighs and he bites down on the junction between shoulder and neck and his hand over her mouth.

 Abyssinia bites down on those fingers, and Skulduggery hisses, shadows surging to rip a hole in the loose cotton pants she likes to wear when she isn’t fighting. He shoves her back against the wall, and thrusts that shadow-ranger of his up into her dripping cunt.

 He’s using gravity to make his thrusts stronger, weakening his hold on her ass on the downward motion so she slams down, _hard_ , and the shock of it sends her eyes rolling into her head as he tightens his jaw on her neck, _imi!_

 Skulduggery must be know she’s about to come, because she feels the way the air currents curl and she knows she can scream without them hearing her, so she does, loud and hurt and good, the orgasm curling her toes and send red hot prickles up her back-

 Valkyrie wakes up. And puts her hands over her face, both because she’s blushing fiercely but also because why couldn’t she see something _useful_ , something that _isn’t_ irrelevant to the problems she’s trying to fix, something that doesn’t have her hot and sweaty and needy?

 She gives herself half an hour. She still can’t get to sleep, and she’s still dripping wet, and, well. Adapt accordingly, Valkyrie tells herself, as if fucking herself with a vibrator is a reasonable solution to this entire mess.

 

-

 

When she sees Skulduggery next, it’s at dinner with her parents, which is _another_ thing she wishes she had cancelled. They sit at the table and Skulduggery fills her parents in on a very edited version of what they’ve been up to, and makes charming jokes and is generally very likeable.

 Alice isn’t here, thank God, and she feels bad at the sheer strength of her relief. But she can’t deal with whole Alice not having an aura mess _and_ Abyssinia’s sex life. One at a time, please.

 “So, Stephanie horrified me the other night,” Skulduggery says casually. Before she realises there’s no way, no possibility, that he could know, a thick blush shoots across her face.

 “Well, whatever she did,” Desmond chuckles, “it seems very embarrassing.”

 Valkyrie can feel the confused look on Skulduggery’s face as he says, “Well, I consider being unamused by Monty Python extremely embarrassing. So you aren’t wrong, Desmond.”

 “You didn’t like Monty _Python?_ ” Her dad gasps, outraged. “I thought I raised you better than that.”

  _You have no idea,_ Valkyrie thinks wearily, and somehow manages a laugh.

 “It was okay,” she protests weakly. “I was just. Tired.”

 And they keep talking but she Knows, capital ‘K’, that Skulduggery knows Something Is Wrong.

 He drives her home. She keeps her hands fisted in her armpits.

 “Are you okay?” He asks her. “You seemed…  tense, tonight.”

 She shrugs. “I’m sore. Did a big work out this afternoon. I probably just went a little too hard.”

 Well, not entirely a lie. She was walking bowlegged for an hour afterwards.

  “If you say so,” he says, clearly unconvinced. But if there’s one thing she can rely on him to be, it’s patient and non-intrusive, and he makes small talk all the way back to Grimwood and she feels awful.

 He’s her best friend for God’s sake, and here she is, lusting over him like some depraved teenager. She’s going to go home and throw out those sex toys, and pretend this isn’t happening.

 (She doesn't’t throw out the sex toys. They were expensive.)

 

-

 

“So, you saw him fucking Abby, huh?” Kes says, sitting on the table as Valkyrie makes lunch.

 “Yes,” she grumbles.

 Valkyrie figured, well, Kes can’t exactly _tell_ anyone. And Kes was Valkyrie, once upon a time. If anyone won’t judge her, it’s Kes.

 “And now you’re frigging yourself off to the memories.”

 “Yes.”

 Kes whistless. “Yikes.”

 “You’re telling me,” Valkyrie mutters, taking her soup out of the microwave. It’s a nice day and a breeze comes through her open window and it would be pleasant if she weren’t confessing her latest sin to a crumb of her murderous split personality.

 “Was he good at least?” Kes asks, and Valkyrie tries not to choke on her soup.

 “I’ll take that as a yes,” Kes grins.

 “He was… rough.”

 “I mean, are you surprised? Don’t you remember Vile popping Darquesse’s eye out?” Kes eyes her. “If you’re seeing pre-Vile Skulduggery, I have news, Val. Romance was the last thing on his mind.”

 “I didn’t say it was bad,” Valkyrie mumbles.

 “Neither did I,” Kes says, and despite herself, Valkyrie huffs a laugh, dipping some stale bread she forgot about into her soup.

 “I don’t know what to do,” she confesses. “This is… these memories aren’t something I want.”

 “Doesn’t matter,” Kes shrugs. “You have them now. The way I see it, you can tell Skulduggery, and suffer _that_ conversation. Not that I recommend it.”

 “Or…?”

 “Buy more sex toys,” Kes nods. “Bigger ones. And wait for the storm to blow over.”

 “You’re astoundingly unhelpful.”

 “Hey, _you’re_ the one called me all the way from America just to tell me you were horny. Thanks, for that, by the way.” She drops off the table, dusts her knees off. “Also, if I don’t show up for the next couple of weeks, it’s because I don’t want to walk in on you during your private time. No offence.”

 “Fair enough,” Valkyrie says, and watches her phase through the backdoor.

 

-

 

She avoids Skulduggery as much as she can for a few weeks. It isn’t hard; he gets called out to Russia temporarily to settle a case he’s been following up since before she came back, and she spends most of her time at home, doing one of three things: working out, reading, or masturbating.

 Is she ashamed? Absolutely. But needs must, really. If she can shoulder the guilt of killing her baby sister and get through day to day life, she can shoulder this too.

 And it works, for a while. It really does. She masturbates in the morning, and sometimes again at night, and throughout the day manages to be a normal person and not think about her best friend and his shadow penis. It’s fine. Valkyrie almost feels like perhaps, she’s safe from these memories now, that maybe like that echoing Shunt so many years ago, these are just remnants of that connection bridging her and Abyssinia; things that she accidentally brushed and took with her, things that will just fade out of her mind. By the start of the third week, she’s only masturbated once in the last three days. A milestone.

 Tuesday afternoon, she sits on the back porch with Xena, enjoying the sun and the breeze, eyes looking out on her land, unfocused, relaxed.

 Too relaxed, it seems; her psychic blocks, usually second nature, ease and dwindle with the sun on her legs and she’s plunged into a memory thick and fast, as if she’s been flung out of her rocking chair.

 She’s pushed over a table, and his fingers are dragging down her side, gripping into her hips like she’s the only thing stopping him from falling over. His shadows creep up her legs, and she looks back at him, grinning wildly. From behind the tight curls of silver hair that fall across her vision, he looks down at her, impassive and unreadable.

 “Go on then,” Abyssinia says. “I know you’ve been wanting to fuck me on this table all month.”

 Skulduggery shrugs. “It’s a sturdy table. Can you blame me?”

 She arches her back up against him. She’s completely naked, and he’s still got his clothes on. They probably look ridiculous, but Abyssinia has never cared about what other people think, and she isn’t about to start now.

 “Everytime I see you sitting at this table,” Skulduggery continues. “Everytime you leant against it.”

 She draws in a breath as the thickness of him pushes against her asshole. It burns a little. It burns _good_.

 “I’ve imagined just bending you over on the wood, in front of everyone, just like this.”

 “Well, where is everyone?” she goads him. “It’s just us.”

 The goading results in exactly what she wants to do; he roughly dragging her by the hips backwards, and he pushes straight into her.

 She pants, arching, burning, the edge of the table jutting into her hip and it’s sharp and fast and merciless and she’s already coming _hard_ , his teeth deep in her neck and blood running down her shoulder.

 Abyssinia is wailing with it, every nerve ending on fire, his other arm wrapped around her chest, yanking him tight to her, and she can feel him growling in her ear, those teeth leaving red on her jaw.

 Valkyrie opens her eyes and wearily, resignedly, gets out a dildo.

 

-

 

When Skulduggery comes back from his trip, Valkyrie is masturbating an embarrassing three times a day. He sends her a text to confirm they’re on for dinner tomorrow. She stares at the phone, still in her underwear and cleaning herself up, and knows she really can’t say no without raising his suspicions any more than she already has.

 It’s fine, this is fine. He suggests maybe they go out, for once, and she is alright with this. In public, surrounded by strangers? Excellent. Good. The ultimate cockblock.

 She buries her head in her heads.

 

-

 

Perhaps as a precaution, she puts on what Kes calls her “depression sweats”, a raggedy t-shirt and a baggy hoodie. Very unsexy clothes. No possible way for her to accidentally feel alluring. Good.

 He honks the horn once and she scurries out, climbs in the Bentley.

 Skulduggery is dressed in one of his sharpest suits and he looks at her, his facade’s brows raised.

 “Wow,” he says. “You really went all out, huh?”

 “I’m sleepy,” she protests, flushing. “And these are comfy.”

 “Lucky for you,” he says, driving through to the second driveway exit, “I decided we aren’t going out. Actually, no. Lucky for me. You look awful, and I look fantastic.”

 She stares at him. “What? Where are we going?”

 He shrugs. “It’s been a rough couple of months, and you  still haven’t seen my renovations to the new house yet. I ordered your favourite pizza, I promise. It’s waiting in the oven, right now.”

 Ah, right. She had forgotten he sold the Cemetary Road house. His address spread like wildfire those years ago, and though he doesn’t exactly fear break-ins and assassination attempts, in his own words; it’d be preferable not to have to anticipate it, especially with everything happening these days.

 Valkyrie shrinks into the seat of the Bentley as they drive along the main stretch. No strangers. No wide open spaces. No cock-block buffer.

 She closes her eyes and counts to ten, then twenty, then a hundred, and feels a little calmer. She’ll just have some pizza and fake some food poisoning and then he’ll take her home. And she’ll masturbate again, probably, because this is what she has been reduced to.

 

-

 

The new house, much like the old one, is extremely tasteful. But this time a little more colorful; a few abstract prints, some fake pot plants. It’s brighter, with a higher ceiling, and as Skulduggery takes her on the tour of the house and shows her the absurdly modern bathroom and the absurdly fluffy towels, she _does_ relax a bit.

 The kitchen is just as elegant, and he puts on some oven mitts and pulls the tray of pizza out.

 God, the fucking oven mitts. She stifles her laughter, and feels much better. Perhaps this won’t be so bad.

 And then they walk into the dining room, the _one_ room they haven’t been in yet, and there are candles and there’s gentle jazz crooning and her heart is in her throat and uh oh spaghettio, ding ding, she needs to leave _immediately._

 Skulduggery doesn’t see this because he’s setting her plate on the table, luckily, because Valkyrie is quite certain she looks horrified. It’s _agonisingly_ romantic in here. All it needs is rose petals.

 Oh my god, she thinks, does he know? Is this a sick joke?

 Skulduggery straightens up and she shoves the rictus expression on her face away, a forced smile taking its place. He pulls out a chair for her, and gestures for her to sit. She does, even though her knees feel like they aren’t bending properly, and she stares at the pizza.

 “It’s not too much, is it?” he asks her. An uncharacteristic nervousness in his voice, and she drags her eyes up to him. The candle light on the curve of his skull reminds her far too much of that first dream, rain on the window, and she looks back at the pizza. “I thought it would be nice to just have a relaxing dinner and spend some time together.”

 God, that earnestness in his voice. The guilt rushes so hard into her chest that for a moment, it’s like she’s been shot, stabbed, _something_ , and she feels dizzy. She abruptly stands up.

 “Valkyrie?”  
 “I have to go,” she says hastily. “Right now.”

 He stands up, clearly confused. “But- your pizza-”

 “Food poisoning,” she blurts. “I can’t eat it. Sorry. Should have told you.”

 She edges around the table, starts backing away to the door.

 “I’ll just call myself an Uber,” Valkyrie babbles. “No need to trouble yourself. It’s fine.”

 “Valkyrie, wait-”

 She speed walks to the door, and wrenches it open. Christ, she doesn’t even have Uber installed on her phone. It’s fine. She’ll walk all the way back to Grimwood, if she has to.  

 A strong gust of air slams the door shut and she turns around. Skulduggery is stalking towards her.

 “Alright,” he says, in a tone she knows very well. It’s that _you are being ridiculous and I’m not putting up with it any longer, Valkyrie_ tone. Firm and a little bit frustrated and great, now she’s remembering how he had ordered her to stop talking- ordered _Abyssinia_ , damn it-

 He stops half a meter from her, arms crossed. “At first I thought maybe you had the flu, or were having a relapse, but you _never_ turn down pizza. I once saw you vomit after a workout and cram a family size Meatlovers in your face not even ten minutes later. Tell me why you’re acting so strange.”

 She scrabbles for the door handle behind her. “I left the oven on?”

 “Valkyrie,” he says, and now that frustration is turning into something even worse; concern. “Just- tell me what’s wrong?” His voice softens. “I thought we were getting back to normal. Did I do something?”

 Her heart breaks. God, she’s an asshole. A dumb, horny asshole. She opens the door and Skulduggery steps forward, pushing it shut before she even realises he’s moved. His hand just next to her jaw, and she swallows, flushes; he steps backwards like she’s slapped him.

 Oh, Christ. She’s going to have to tell him. Fuck.

 “It’s- I don’t know how to-” she exhales, and then has an idea. A horrible idea. “I can. I can show you, maybe?”

 “Show me what?” he asks her gently, and she suspects that he thinks she’s about to reveal she’s got magical cancer, or something. She wants to laugh. If only.

 Well, she’s made this bed. Time to lie in it; the words tumble out of her mouth like weights.

 “I saw you and Abyssinia. In my head.”

 Incredibly, the relief of this admission is tantamount to when she was a teenager, confessing she was the destroyer of worlds. The lightness is tangible. Skulduggery tilts his head.

 “I have to confess,” he says. “I’m not sure what you mean.”  

 The relief is short lived; right. She has to elaborate, doesn’t she?”

 “I saw,” she says delicately. “You and Abyssinia. Alone.”

 She looks at him meaningfully. His head rears back. Despite the horrible awkwardness of this, she revels in one of the few times she’s taken him genuinely by surprise.

 “I think,” Valkyrie continues, “When I bridged into her head, maybe… I accidentally absorbed some things? And this is an echo of that connection? I don’t know. They’ve been in dreams, mostly. But. I was her. In these memories. Like when I saw you stab her.”

 Skulduggery is very quiet, for quite a while. She shuffles her feet on the very nice hardwood floor. She likes the carpet he’s laid down. It’s nice and soft.

 “What did you see?” he asks, like the question is physically paining him.

 She outstretches her hands, grimacing. “I can show you.”

 So he steps forward, and she gathers that energy and lays her hands on him, flesh to bone.

 Much like she remembers touching his consciousness when she was Darquesse, his mind is made differently to Abyssinia’s, a little alien and a little wild, and maybe that’s why when she tries to show him those horrible private rememberings in their purity, what he gets is a replay of the last five or so weeks of her masturbating to them.

 It’s an instantaneous thing and even Valkyrie is yanking her hands from him in pure terror and humiliation, he is lifting his head and staring at her like she’s a wild animal in his home. She feels tears prick her eyes.

 “I’m sorry,” she says. “I didn’t- that’s not what I wanted to show you- I’m so sorry, I-”

 “Valkyrie,” he says. His voice is rough, and oh, she knows that voice. She’s heard it through Abyssinia’s ears, and despite the way she feels like she’s about to literally die of embarrassment, her body reacts automatically; heat streaks down her belly. “I- Y-you-”

 He’s fuckering _stuttering._ She’s never, not once, heard him stutter. Skulduggery takes a breath he doesn’t need, like he’s fortifying himself.

 “Valkyrie,” he says again, and he seems more assured now. He adjusts his tie, and looks back up at her. “You missed me.”

 Some part of her recognises that self assured tone, and reacts accordingly, a thankful automation borne of the years she’s known him and his vast ego. “Not especially. I just didn’t have anything better to do.”

 Yes, banter. Good. This can still be salvaged. She goes to open the door while this is going okay, and he gently pushes it shut once more. She looks at his hand, and then back at him. His posture is one she can’t read.

 “Skulduggery,” she says.

 “Valkyrie,” he says.

 “I get the feeling,” she says, with mischief that surprises her, “That you aren’t mad with me.”

 “I’m not mad,” he says. “Just disappointed.”

 “Ah,” she says, forcing a laugh, as her stomach tries to escape through her teeth. Of course. There was no way she could ever possibly have gotten out of this that easily.

 “Disappointed,” he continues, “that you think I would ever fuck you like that.”

 She laughs. And then frowns. And then squints at him. “What?”

 He leans in just a little. Her heart starts racing.

 “I’d lose myself in you,” he murmurs, and she shivers at the huskiness of it, “I’d spend hours just kissing along your neck, along your chest. By the time I finally got to your hips-” there’s a hitch in his breath, and she sees how his fist is clenched against the door. He starts to lean back, and she knows _this_ posture; cool and emotionless, and is he _serious with this,_ she’s been imagining this for _weeks_ , he can’t just _dirty talk her and leave her high and dry._

 But somewhere in her, she knows that this is him, just like her, trying to avoid that terrible vulnerability; trying to stop something that might not be a mistake. She gently wraps a hand around his tie, and slowly pulls him back. She gives him the chance to put and end to this. But he draws to her eagerly, relief in every line of him.

 “You were talking about my hips?” Valkyrie prompts him.

 “Ah, yes. Your hips,” he says, and he shifts against her, clears his throat. Now they’re pressed together, and his hand comes along her side. If Abyssinia felt like she was on fire, Valkyrie feels like she’s plunged in a volcano.

 This is so much more than those memories ever could be.

 “I’d bite them,” he tells her, and there’s that voice once more. “Gentle, just enough that you stretch your legs wide open, and then I’d make you _scream_ , Valkyrie.” The hand on the door slides and now it’s on the side of her neck, and she arches against him.

 “Have you ever been with someone who didn’t have to breathe?” he murmurs in her ear. Her legs quiver.

 “Alright,” she manages. “You’re talking the talk pretty well. I’m impressed. But if you keep going I think my knees are going to give out.”

 Skulduggery laughs, warm and rough and delighted, and presses his teeth to her cheek, to the junction of her neck. He nips her skin and she moans.

 “Shall we try out your bed?” he asks her.

 “God, _yes_ ,” she says. Neither of them move though, listening to her panting as his fingers draw along the underside of her breast. She can feel her nipples straining against her bra. Fuck, she regrets wearing these shabby clothes. She should have worn full on _lingerie_ , with thigh high stockings and those matching crotchless panties she wore once and might not actually still fit her, but still. She’s wearing her _depression sweats for God’s sake,_ and Skulduggery is about to _fuck her._

 “Looks like we’re in a stalemate,” she manages, and throws her head back as he runs a single finger over her nipple.

 “Well, let’s compromise,” he says, and with effortless strength his hands go to her ass and he pulls her up; she wraps her legs around his waist. Valkyrie whimpers as he carries her to her- their?- bedroom, biting along her shoulder all the while, and then he sits her on the bed. She immediately sits up and sets to taking her clothes off. Skulduggery puts his hand over hers, and says, ever the gentleman: “Let me.”

 God, it’s agonising, and he knows it. She wants him to fuck her, to make her shudder and scream, and here he is, drawing down the zipper of her hoodie like he’s determined to make her beg.

 Well, Valkyrie’s not above begging.

 “Please god hurry the fuck _up_ ,” she says.

 He looks up at her. “I get the feeling,” he says. “That you’re less in the mood for slow sex, and more in the mood for fucking.”

 He sounds a little disappointed. She squirms. “Look,” she says. “I can’t believe I’m saying this. But you’re a hundred percent correct.”

 Skulduggery hums. “You know, I kind of imagined our first time being a little… softer. Romantic.” His voice dips, and there’s such affection in it that it warms her. “I want to make love to you, Valkyrie Cain.”

 “Let’s compromise,” she says, even as her heart throbs, and he laughs. “Because frankly, I haven’t had sex for nearly a decade now. I don’t think I could last long enough to make love right now.”

 “I feel like that’s meant to be my line,” he says. “What do you propose?”

 “I propose we relieve this built up sexual tension. Roughly. Passionately. And then once I’ve recovered about five minutes later, we can make love.”

 Skulduggery tilts his head in that way of his. “Alright. I would like to make sure we’re on the same level in regards to what rough means, though.”

 She can’t help it; she giggles. This entire thing is absurd, so completely forthright. “I’m honestly up for pretty much anything. Shall we pick a safeword?”

 “The sparrow flies south for the winter?” he suggests, and she roars with laughter. “A bit of a mouthful,” he admits sadly.

 “Sparrow,” she says.

 “Alright,” he says.

 “Also, maybe don’t draw blood. I can’t heal myself.”

 “An excellent point.”

 “So we’re agreed?” she says eagerly.

 “We are agreed.” Skulduggery pauses. “I hope you know I’m about to rock your world,” he tells her loftily.

 “I’ll believe it when I see it,” Valkyrie says, and suddenly he’s ripping the clothes off her, _literally_ , and she’s shrieking in surprise and delight as he pushes her to the bed and then he’s biting into her neck, hard enough she groans with the mingling of pain and pleasure, can’t decide which one she likes more. His hand slides down her, along her belly, and he makes a surprised sound.

 “You’re already wet, Valkyrie?” he says, that deep voice rumbling down her spine.

 “You better believe it,” she says, and he laughs as gloved fingers sink into her and she moans as he powers into her, thumb swiping her clit. Just as she’s about to crest he immediately withdraws and swings his leg over her, brings her hands above her head. She tries to rock up into the hand out of her reach and he bites her nipple just enough that she cries out.

 Fuck. _Fuck_.

 “Please,” she says. “God, _please_.”

 “You’re praying to the wrong person,” he says, and then he runs his finger along the edge of her ass, looks at he. She knows he’s giving her the chance to say the safeword. She looks at him, panting, expectant, and then his finger is inside her and she groaning and sighing and begging and god, she needs more. She needs _him_ , and she struggles against his hands but doesn’t say the safeword because she’s wanted those hands holding her down for for weeks, wanted to feel this _herself_ , not through someone else.

 “Skulduggery,” she moans.

 “Yes, Valkyrie?” he asks her, leaning over to bite her jaw, bite her lips, and she arches up into the fabric of his suit, desperate for the tiny glimmer of sensation her breasts brushing against that smooth fabric can bring.

 “I need you,” she says. “Please, Christ, I need you inside of me.”

 He slips another finger in her asshole and the moan breaks out of her, so loud, and she whimpers with it, can feel her pussy leaking onto her bed.

 “I’m already inside of you,” he says, infuriating smugness.

 “You know what I mean,” she says, too absolutely buckwild horny to actually be mad.

 “Do you want the facade?” he asks her.

 “No,” she says. “I want _you_.”

 He releases her just long enough to take off his gloves, unzip his pants. Before he can do anything else, she turns herself over; he comes behind, her pulls her against his front.

 “Both holes,” she says, and is almost embarrassed by how unembarrassed she is to say that. “I need you inside both.”

 He hums, bites the back of her neck, and she feels something against the back of her. Not like the shadows; she suspects it’s air, maybe? But it certainly feels sturdy and thick and he dips his fingers into her cunt, spreads her over those creative air appendages, and then he sinks himself into her, the two of them hunching over the bed like animals rutting in heat.

 Valkyrie groans, moans, while he lets her adjust to the sensation. The dildo she’s used in her ass is nothing like this, nowhere near as good as this, and she tries to do what Abyssinia did, drawing her magic and mingling it with his. It’s clumsy, but it seems to work because she can feel him shaking behind her, that rough moan in her ear, in her soul.

 When she’s ready, she moves against him and holy fucking _shit._

 Well, he wasn’t lying; she’s screaming with how good it feels, how good it feels for him to be fucking _her, Valkyrie Cain_ , and he’s biting harder than before and his hand comes around to the front and he starts touching her clit as he fucks both her holes and she’s coming, just as quickly as she thought she would, coming a second time, a third time, an incredible fourth time.

 With a sliver of concentration returned to her, she focuses her attention on her magic mingling with his and then Skulduggery is moaning her name and thrusting so far into her she’s mildly concerned he might actually break something, and then they both slow to a stop.

 “Jesus _Christ,_ ” Valkyrie pants.

 “Again,” Skulduggery murmurs, as sweat runs down her back. “Wrong person.”

 

-

 

It turns out, Valkyrie is going to need more than five minutes; she lays in Skulduggery’s arms and they doze, for a bit. She aches in the best way, a satisfied way.

 “I can’t say I was expecting the night to go this way,” Skulduggery says. “Not a complaint, of course. Just very unexpected.”

 She rolls over to look at him, and he tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. It feels like for the first time in a month, she’s actually relaxed, all that heat fading to a comfortable simmer.

 “Why the candles, though,” she asks.

 “They were meant to be lavender scented,” he grumbles. “I was trying to promote a relaxing atmosphere.”

 She smiles so broadly it hurts, and takes his hand, brings it to her mouth. She peppers it with kisses.

 “I mean, you utterly failed,” Valkyrie tells him.

 “Yes, I can imagine that you may have not been prepared for what could have been seen as a romantic dinner date.” He pauses, props his head on his other hand and watches her lazily kiss his radius. “Out of curiosity,” he begins. “Did I count right?”

 “Count what right?”

 “Did you really masturbate sixty two times in five weeks?”

 “Look,” she says. “Look.”

 “I’m not judging,” he says. “I’m actually very impressed. Mainly that your vagina hasn’t fallen out.”

 “I do a lot of pelvic floor exercises.”

 “Do you really?”

 “No,” she admits. “I was just very, very horny.”

 He laughs, and cradles her cheek with his hand, draws her close and kisses her.

 She wriggles. “You know,” she says. “I feel recovered. Refreshed.”

 “Is that so?” he asks, gently running his thumb along her cheekbone.

 Valkyrie nods. “You held up your end of the bargain.”

 “Yes, I certainly did. I’m very glad this house has thick walls.”

 “Concerned I might disturb the neighbours?”

 “No,” he says. “Concerned I might have to share the glorious sound that is you wailing at the top of your lungs while I fuck you.”

 “I don’t _wail_ ,” she protests, even as that heat coils in her, a little gentler but no less hot.

 “Mm. I’ll pay more attention this time. Maybe I misheard you. With my perfect, earless hearing.”

 She can’t muster up a witty retort as his hand trails down her breast, gentle and loving, and he draws them closer together.

 This is a quiet thing, a soft thing. Skulduggery turns on the facade and now he’s warm and even if she prefers him sharp and cold and boney, there is an undeniable loveliness to this, the pretense of what he’s trying to give her.

 Stubbled lips press against the pulse of her throat and coarse fingers run down her spine like he’s reading braille. Skulduggery buries his face in her shoulder and just holds her for a bit, and then she realises something delightfully hard is pressing against her thigh.

 “Oh my god,” she laughs. “Is that-?”

 “Yes,” he says without moving, and then pulls his head back to look at her. It’s one of the rare faces that suits him, with freckles and a mop of hair, bright grey eyes.

 She looks between them, and my goodness, there it is.

 “Is it, uh. True to the original?”

 Skulduggery gives her a crooked sort of smile, a little embarrassed, and she understands immediately.

 “Oh my God,” she says. “You’ve forgotten what your dick looked like.” And then they’re both laughing. As they shudder with it, though, they graze against each other and the heat turns up a little more again.

 He rolls them and she’s on top of him now; he smiles up at her, little laughter lines at the corner of his eyes crinkling.

 “I love you,” he says.

 “I love you too,” she smiles, and dips her head to kiss him.

 It’s been a very long time since she kissed someone with lips, but it’s like riding a bicycle, isn’t it? As natural as breathing, and they sink into an embrace that feels like it should look impossible, entwined and spiralled like vines in a forest.

 “I missed you,” she whispers into his shoulder, as he slowly, gently bucks up against her.

 “I missed you too,” he murmurs, and they’re so close she’s not sure how he manages it but he somehow slithers down and then he’s running a very human, very wet, tongue along her inner thigh.

 She leans back and braces herself as he worships her, braces her hands on the slight hair dusting his chest, lets her breath warm and puff in the air. Before was what she wanted, but this, this intimacy and stillness, is what she _needed_.

 Valkyrie comes as gentle as the rain starting to patter on the window, and he looks up at her, mouth covered in her, with the widest smile she’s ever seen. He sits himself up. She climbs into his lap and guides herself true, wraps her arms around his neck as she slides onto him.

 “Ah,” Skulduggery sighs, and they hold for a perfect few seconds, like the world stills at a quantum level. It’s just her and him, him and her, her forehead against his.

 She’s the one to move this time, slow and gentle, a good, loving rhythm older than they both ever will be. They’re holding each other so tightly.

 Unlike before, time passes, sticky and soft like caramel, a steady build, and it’s the tiniest thing that tips them both over; Skulduggery nestling into the hollow beneath her throat, her hand tightening on the nape of his neck.

 The rain against the window, and he looks at her like a man seeing the stars for the first time. And then, because Skulduggery can’t handle prolonged emotion without making a snarky comment, he says, “I think we need to change your quilt cover.”

 They shuffle off each other, and he’s right; a classic, substantial, _aromatic_ wet patch soaks the thoughtfully picked out linens.

  “Nah,” Valkyrie says. “It’s fine.” Her stomach rumbles, and she looks down, and then looks up and says, “Can I have that pizza, actually?”

 Skulduggery rolls his eyes, but he’s still smiling.

 “I’ll be right back,” he assures her, and disappears out the room. She pulls back the covers and climbs into bed; he appears a few minutes later with the freshley microwaved plate.

 “If you get crumbs in the bed,” he says, sliding in next to her, “You’re getting the vacuum. Not me.”

 “Or you can just lick them off me,” she suggests. “Sexy pizza foreplay.”

 “Absolutely not,” he says.

 “What if it’s on my pussy, though?”

 He pauses.

 She grins.

 “Well,” he says. “That’s an extenuating circumstance. I’ll have to make exceptions.”

 

(She doesn’t get any crumbs anywhere.)

(He doesn’t mind. She’s a messy eater. It’s inevitable.)

 

(The linens are still stained, several washes and several months later, but she refuses to throw them out.)

**Author's Note:**

> Some notes:
> 
> Abyssinia is literally a place in Ethiopa, so with that in mind, my image of Abyssinia the character is a dark skinned woman. Her mother tongue is Amharic with a fair bit of Swahili mixed in, and here's a translation of the few words she says:
> 
> doek - head scarf (Swahili)  
> Besime’ābi - Oh my God (Amharic)  
> kisimi - clitoris (Swahili)  
> mtumwa - slave (Swahili)  
> imi! - fuck! (Amharic)
> 
> Skulduggery, who speaks a bit more Caelic in these memories:
> 
> Buíochas le Dia - God save us 
> 
> Additionally, some dirty slang appropriate of the time:
> 
> altar - slang for vagina in 1680-90  
> ranger - slang for penis in 1680
> 
> Also, thanks to Mooncactus who helped with the minimal plot actually in this! 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed!


End file.
